


She's Yelling Timber

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Series: CM Chatfic [19]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Always-a-girl, Commitment, Early Relationship, F/F, First Times, Genderswap, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, early LA era, intimate vulnerability, u-hauling long-distance style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23842528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Ronan likes to take her time in relationships, for a lot of reasons, but she’s never met someone quite like Jonathan before.
Relationships: Ronan Farrow/Jon Lovett
Series: CM Chatfic [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1231541
Comments: 16
Kudos: 69





	She's Yelling Timber

Ronan’s decided it’s time. 

Lovett’s been really good with Ronan’s schedule, a lot better than some women and most men Ronan’s dated lately. She’s made the occasional soft, wanting noise when Ronan stops kissing her, but that’s more like a bonus than anything else. 

So far they've made out against: 1) Ronan's front door; 2) the alley wall outside the restaurant where Ronan ordered pizza with anchovies and Lovett made fun of it for twenty surprisingly entertaining minutes; 3) Lovett's front door; 4) a parked car, which thankfully didn't set off a car alarm; 5) a Metro station stairwell wall, until a man whistled at them.

And every one of those has been fantastic, and Ronan’s always cautious with new people, but—but Lovett’s really fucking hot, and Ronan’s ready to invite her back. 

She’s almost certain it’s going to be a yes, from the way Lovett arrived to their dinner looking harried and apologetic, slightly late but clearly genuinely concerned Ronan wouldn't be there, and the way Lovett’s been holding her hand on the way back from the restaurant, Lovett’s fingers warm in hers. Not to mention the way Lovett’s gaze keeps catching on Ronan’s mouth. 

“I have time for another drink,” Ronan says, trying to play it casual. “I have a pretty well-stocked bar.”

“Of course you do,” Lovett says, but it’s not at all a no, not with the way Lovett’s squeezing her hand. “And some valuable etchings you think I’d like to look at?”

Ronan laughs. “Yeah. Come see my etchings.”

Ronan knows enough about Lovett by now to tip the ratio heavily on the side of diet coke when she makes Lovett a drink. They clink glasses, settled on Ronan's huge comfortable couch, and she catches Lovett looking at her mouth again, obvious and everything Ronan wants after this whole fun evening.

“You look really nice. If I didn’t say,” Ronan tells her. She’s sure she did, actually, but it never hurts to emphasize. Lovett’s wearing tight jeans and dark mascara, and she’s gotten her curls into a soft chignon that makes her whole face look angelic. 

“You do, too,” Lovett says. “I like this dress.” She reaches out to touch the hem of it, high on Ronan’s thigh, and look Ronan’s whole body over. From someone else, Ronan might hate that look; from Lovett, it’s making her breathe harder already, making her glad she decided to ask Lovett back here.

"Yeah? I hoped you would."

“It’s—yeah. I definitely do. I mean, what’s not to like?” Lovett slides her hand up a little, thumb sweeping in little arcs on Ronan’s skin. 

Ronan doesn't like to think of it as a test, exactly, but sometimes when she puts on a shorter dress, she learns that she's going out with someone who's actually a jerk. Lovett had looked at her in the dress, scars and all, and just said she looked amazing. It's not everything; people can be jerks in a lot of ways, and Ronan has a lot of scars that aren't visible from the outside. But it's a very good start, and it very much made Ronan want to invite Lovett back here, for this.

Ronan’s watching her now, too, and Lovett’s face is only revealing interest. That look, that reaction, makes it easy for Ronan to just put her glass down and lean in, Lovett’s lips parting invitingly just before she gets there. 

Ronan hasn't had this level of instant chemistry with someone so quickly since—since she doesn't remember, maybe a woman in New Haven that picked her up at one of the shittier student parties, blew her twenty-year old mind, and never called. Lovett is warm and eager and reciprocal, and she reaches out for Ronan’s waist, tugging her in.

It's immediately the kind of making out that comes with giggles: a burst of them when Lovett readjusts to curl closer, another when Ronan's hands tangle in Lovett's hair. More when Lovett gently tips them over until she's on top of Ronan, holding herself up on her elbows and knees.

Ronan goes easily, blinking up at Lovett, feeling the way her lips are tingling. "You look," Lovett says, and can't find the words, and kisses her again.

Lovett’s keeping above her, and Ronan can’t fully tell if she’s keeping the space for herself or because she thinks Ronan wants it. They'd been pressed close the last couple times they made out—very, very close in that subway station—but those had been upright and in public. Maybe on Ronan's big couch, it feels like a bigger ask for Lovett. 

Ronan doesn’t push her, focusing on kissing for now, as much as she wants to find the bottom hem of Lovett’s shirt and work her hands up under it. 

"We don't have to do anything else," Lovett blurts, suddenly. "We can, we don't have to—"

Ronan laughs, pulling Lovett down a little to kiss her jaw. “That’s too bad, since I got you back here to look at my etchings and everything.”

Lovett‘s cheek moves against Ronan; it feels like a smile. “Oh, well. In that case. I’d be thrilled to get the chance to admire them.” 

"They'd like that," Ronan tells her, and moves her hands down the arch of Lovett's spine, waiting just above the curve of her—incredible—ass.

Lovett’s wearing dark jeans; Ronan’s pretty sure she knows how good her ass looks in them. She deserves to hear it, anyway. Maybe later. Right now, Ronan’s going to tug, right here, until Lovett’s hips are on hers.

Lovett’s been a little toppier than Ronan was expecting, when they’ve been kissing, but Ronan’s dated girls who turned pillow princess once things got horizontal, and she has a suspicion Lovett might be like that. That Lovett might appreciate a guiding hand.

She's rewarded with a grunt from Lovett, flush against Ronan's throat, and if Ronan moves just—like _that_, it brings one of her thighs between Lovett's, gives her a little leverage to plant a foot on the couch and hold on as Lovett shudders down against her.

"This is a really nice couch," Lovett mumbles, and Ronan snorts before she can help it. Lovett seems to bring out the dorkiest parts of her, but somehow, Lovett seems to _like_ her dorky parts.

Lovett’s warm and responsive as Ronan tugs their bodies together, Lovett's tits brushing Ronan's through their clothes. She squirms as Ronan flexes her thigh up as best she can. 

Ronan wants to get Lovett's shirt off. She wants to tell her she's beautiful.

She settles, just now, for kissing her more and letting her hands actually reach the curve of Lovett's ass so she can pull her in tighter. Being underneath has definite perks; Lovett's holding herself up and can't touch just yet, but Ronan can slide her hands back up Lovett's sides until she's got her fingertips against the warm underside of Lovett's tits where her bra has ridden up.

"Subtle," Lovett tells her, and drops her mouth to Ronan's throat, nibbling. After a few delicious moments she stops—Ronan doesn't stifle her groan of displeasure—and says, "Sorry, to be clear, that was a yes. Feel free. Whatever you want."

"I want you to keep kissing my neck," Ronan tells her, but once Lovett's laughed and gone back to it, she slips her fingers under the hem of Lovett's shirt and starts to work it upwards.

Lovett doesn't make any move to stop her, and shifts to help Ronan tug the shirt over her head, and then there she is, curls rumpled and bare to her waist. She's wearing a fancier bra than Ronan was expecting, honestly, because it's the kind that looks hotter than it does comfortable, black and unexpectedly lacy at the tops of the cups, and her tits look _unbelievable_. Ronan wants to put her mouth on them.

Lovett rolls her shoulders like she's thinking about hunching over, hiding maybe, and Ronan can't have that. "You look so fucking good," she says. "Oh my god."

It's true, and it works too: Lovett laughs, and relaxes. "This is my only good bra," she says.

"It's really good," Ronan tells her. "Or, more specifically, the whole situation here is—really good." Not her showiest vocabulary, but her whole mind is focused on how much she wants to get her hands and her mouth on every part of Lovett. She knows exactly where she'd like to start, too.

She licks her lips. "Can you lean up a little?"

"Up like—" Lovett moves away from her, onto her hands.

"No, up like put your boobs in my face, please," Ronan says in a rush, cheeks hot. She's usually good at this stuff; something about Lovett makes her feel fresh and embarrassed, but in a strangely good way.

"Can I—yes, yes, I can, I can for sure do that." Lovett's cheeks look flushed too; maybe she's feeling the same as Ronan, off-guard in the best kind of way. She leans back down, and then—oh, thank god, her tits are close enough for Ronan to lift her head up and kiss, kiss the curved tops spilling over the bra at this angle, smooth and firm under her mouth.

She can get her hands up under them, too, feeling out the heft and softness. “Jesus,” Ronan mumbles.

“I do tend to evoke that reaction,” Lovett says. “Well, not always that exact one. Certainly not the girls from Hebrew school. But, you know, similar vibe.”

“You hooked up with girls in Hebrew school?”

“Well—not actually, no. But at least one did seem fairly mesmerized when I didn’t wear a bra.”

"Who could blame her?" Ronan asks. She rubs a thumb over the front of the cups, feeling her way, and gets a gratifying gasp from Lovett when she finds a nipple.

Lovett readjusts over her. Ronan’s stopped focusing on pushing a thigh between Lovett’s, and Lovett is taking over, grinding one knee down towards Ronan. Ronan lets her, making room, and presses her whole face down into the warm space between Lovett’s tits.

She wonders if Lovett likes teeth, tests out a scrape of hers on one inside curve. “Mmm.” It’s a good noise, and Ronan doubles down, pleased with her success.

The lace is scratching Ronan's face, and she can feel how into this Lovett is by how quickly she's starting to breathe. Ronan arches up against her knee, pushing for friction, and they're a tangle on the couch, Lovett squirming above Ronan and Ronan slipping her hand inside Lovett's bra for better access.

They should move to Ronan’s bed. Just, that would require moving away from Lovett’s body, however briefly, and Ronan can’t possibly.

“Can I—?” Ronan asks, freeing a hand to get it on Lovett’s back, at her bra clasp.

“Yeah,” Lovett says. “But can we also—is taking your dress off too much, or—“

"Only logistically," Ronan says, gesturing at their tangle of limbs, the way Lovett is flush against her body. "But otherwise, yes, we absolutely can. Can you—" and there's a brief and undignified rearranging between the two of them so Ronan can try and fail to sit up that ends with both of them laughing, and then making out some more, Ronan's arm around the small of Lovett's back. "Right, wait," Ronan says, and manages to at least get her dress up around her waist, which is not _off_ by any means, but gives Lovett a look at more of her, access to more.

Lovett really is looking.

“God. You’re—wow,” Lovett says, leaning back and stroking her hands up Ronan’s thighs. She glances up like she’s waiting to be told to stop, but Ronan definitely wants her to keep touching, even if it puts Lovett’s tits annoyingly out of reach.

Lovett’s fingertips reach the hem of Ronan’s panties, just teasing there for a moment, and Ronan shifts her hips to make it easier, spreads her legs as much as she can with how they’re sitting.

Lovett would only need to move her fingers a fraction of an inch and she'd be—Ronan knows she's wet, can feel it, can feel her panties starting to cling to her. Lovett must be able to see it too; she bites her lip, tracing circles just below the edge of fabric, right at the top of Ronan's thigh.

“Not to jump right ahead or anything,” Lovett says, and leans closer to kiss the skin of Ronan’s lower belly, just between her underwear and her pushed-up dress.

“Come kiss me again,” Ronan says, her heart pounding. _Fuck._ “You’re too far away.”

Lovett glances up, surprised. "I am?"

"You are," Ronan says, and reaches for her. Hopefully it sounds hot, and not—anything else. Not that wanting to kiss Lovett again is a lie, not in the slightest: having Lovett lean back against her, mouth back on hers, is anything but a consolation prize. Just—Ronan doesn't want what Lovett was offering, and she doesn't want to say, to break the mood. To do anything that might stop what Lovett is doing, one hand roaming further up under Ronan's dress until Ronan has to tip her head back and groan. 

“Also, you said I could—“ She reaches behind Lovett to unhook her bra, tugging the straps down Lovett’s sides. Lovett has to stop exploring to pull the bra off, which gives Ronan the perfect chance to say, “Mm, go back to that now, please,” hoping Lovett’s wandering fingers will find their way back into her underwear. Just—not Lovett's mouth. 

And then—god, some sort of perfect synergy, with Lovett slipping her hand under the edge of Ronan's panties, her fingers finally touching skin, at the same time as she leans back down and Ronan can crane up and get her mouth around one flushed pink nipple, giving it just the edge of teeth.

"Ah," Lovett breathes, pleased. Ronan wants to know every sound she makes and how to encourage them. Lovett's shifting, trying to keep her tits in Ronan's face but get—if Ronan's right, and she's pretty sure about it—enough of an elbow bend to be able to really do what she wants downstairs.

Ronan tilts her hips again, as much as she can, and Lovett pauses for a moment and rearranges their legs, hers inside Ronan's. Ronan agrees with that plan immensely, and drags Lovett back down to kiss her throat and then back down to one nipple. Like this, she can spread her legs obscenely and give Lovett all the space she could want.

Lovett has quick, clever fingers and she's clearly focused, readjusting at every cue Ronan gives her. The angle must be cramped for her, not least because Ronan's still wearing her underwear, but god, is she working with it.

Ronan could pause them and get Lovett to take her pants off, but this is so fucking good already that it's hard not to just let it wash over her. Lovett's gorgeous tits in her face and Lovett's very excellent fingers working her over are pretty much everything she's been wanting for the last several hours—for the last week or more, really.

"You can—I like, uh, penetration," Ronan tells her. She's been with girls who don't, or only in very specific ways, but Ronan likes it maybe even more than she likes clit play, sometimes. "Feel free."

"Oh yeah?" and Lovett is there almost at once, teasing just a fingertip where Ronan is wet and, suddenly, zero to sixty, desperate. Forty to sixty. Suddenly at the fucking max, is what she's saying; the metaphors are getting away from her with Lovett's fingers doing that.

"Yeah," Ronan manages, and arches up. "You can—two, please—_oh_ yeah, fuck, Lovett, just like that."

Lovett might be teasing, but she isn't cruel. Once Ronan asks, suddenly she's being filled exactly right, curving fingers pressing into her. Lovett knows it's right, too, because she isn't hesitating; she's leaning back on her heels enough to get her fingers in deep and her thumb on Ronan's clit, exactly the move Ronan would pull in the same circumstance.

It pulls Lovett away from her, but Ronan has some moves of her own, starting with cupping Lovett's tits in both hands and getting her fingers instead of her teeth around Lovett's nipples. She can definitely make Lovett squeal this way, she bets.

Lovett's tits are unbelievable, and Ronan feels lucky to be touching them, to be pinching at Lovett's gorgeous nipples, making her—_there_—gasp sharply and lose focus, thumb slipping on Ronan's clit.

Ronan grins at her, feeling smug about any number of things right at this moment. "You like that?"

"Yeah," Lovett groans. "Harder's good. Is this—do you like this?"

"I think you can tell that I do," Ronan says. She's never been more thankful to have such an enormous couch, big enough that neither of them are in danger of falling off even with two of Lovett's fingers tucked inside Ronan, Lovett balancing between Ronan's legs. Lovett's squirming in place, like she's trying to rock against the seam of her jeans.

Ronan knows that feeling so well. Fingering someone is a distinct form of self-pleasure, almost as much as it’s a way of getting the other person off. She wants to be touching Lovett just like that. Maybe in a minute or three, though, because _fuck_ this feels amazing.

Lovett looks like she's in a similar state even though all Ronan has done is run her hands over Lovett's tits, pinch and then pinch harder at her nipples. "You look so good," Ronan tells her, rocking her hips, and Lovett groans again, and then ducks her head, self-conscious.

“I'm, uh, kind of easy," she says, staring down at her hand, disappearing into Ronan's soaked underwear. She presses the pads of her fingers up and Ronan can't help but clench around them, gasping. "Just so you know."

Ronan's pretty sure Lovett means _easy to get off_ and god, that's hot. That's so fucking hot. "Good," Ronan tells her. God, some other night—she wonders if that means Lovett can do multiples easily, too. Ronan finds just one slow and tricky, usually.

Right now, though—right now feels like it's gonna be a lot faster than usual, actually. "You're getting me really—this is really good," Ronan adds, in case Lovett's not sure. "Please don't stop."

"Wasn't going to," Lovett says, and grins down at her.

Ronan wants to shut her eyes and _feel_, but not quite as much as she wants to watch Lovett’s face. And a little bit to watch and make sure Lovett sticks to what she’s doing now, which is perfect, without trying to—upgrade it in any ways Ronan isn’t game for.

She glances down at where she’s still got Lovett’s nipples in her fingers, and tries a gentle twist. “Ah, fuck, yeah,” Lovett groans, instantly easy for it. God, Ronan could get used to that.

She does it again, slightly less gentle, and Lovett groans louder, twitching into it. "You're—you're gonna make me come," Lovett blurts, thumb moving slowly on Ronan's clit, like it's taking concentration. "I said—and you're so hot—and you're doing _that_—"

"Jesus," Ronan groans. "Yeah, I want you to. Come back up here and let me—"

Lovett does, losing her focus on touching Ronan to lean up into nipple-sucking range. Ronan feels ridiculous and desperate, sucking one hard and twisting the other, but Lovett's squeal makes it more than worth it. Ronan even has a free hand now to shove against the seam of Lovett's jeans, give her just a little bit of the friction she's been trying to get from the air.

It has immediately gratifying results: Lovett makes the most amazing noise—Ronan wondered if she'd be loud in bed; she's so talkative out of it—and shoves down for more. Ronan can feel her hot and wanting even through her jeans.

Ronan thinks she can make Lovett come this way. No: she _knows_ she can, and she wants that so much, even more than her own orgasm. She wants to feel Lovett shake over her and for Lovett to know that Ronan gave her that, that Ronan made her come.

She presses in harder, letting Lovett rock against her hand, and bites down on the nipple she's sucking, harder than she'd want for herself but, she suspects, exactly what Lovett wants.

"Fuck," Lovett pants, and braces herself with her spare hand against the back of the couch. It doesn't look like a very comfortable position: she's bent over so Ronan can get to her nipples, and she's still got her fingers just inside Ronan, which Ronan is greedily pleased about, but she stays where she is, almost humping against Ronan's hand.

"Yeah, let me—let me see you, that's it," Ronan tells her, not quite managing to say what she wants to say, but thinking Lovett can probably get the gist.

Lovett makes a high-pitched noise, closer to a whistle than a moan, and then she's shaking, squeezing her thighs around Ronan's hand. "I—god—"

Next time, Ronan's going to watch her all the way through it. She's going to see every flicker of feeling on Lovett's expressive face as Ronan makes her come. This time, though, she has Lovett panting for breath as she comes down, Lovett's thighs still tight around her hand, Lovett's shiver of sensitivity as Ronan grazes her nipple with her teeth—and oh, god, Ronan needs to come soon too, she has to.

"Fuck, I need—touch me again, please, that was so hot."

"I am touching you," Lovett says, halfway between a grouch and a laugh, but she's leaning down and away, Ronan releasing her nipple, until her elbow is bent enough again to fully—

"Oh, fucking Jesus, please, yes," Ronan moans. "Please, yes, just like that, please, _yes_."

"You really know what you want, huh?" Lovett says. She's still out of breath, but she's focusing back on Ronan hard, fingers working. She's so fucking gorgeous, splotchy red up to her damp hairline, and Ronan isn't going to last a single minute more.

"Want _you_," Ronan gasps, and rocks up towards Lovett's fingers, working her hips so Lovett's thumb is just—exactly—there—

It rocks through her, faster and harder than she's used to except with her favorite vibrator. She knows she's squeezing Lovett's fingers too hard, and grabbing her arm too hard, too, but it takes her long moments to relax any of her muscles. Holy _shit_.

When she can open her eyes again, Lovett is staring down at her, open-mouthed. "Holy shit," she says. "You're so—do you need my fingers or can I kiss you?"

"I—kiss me," Ronan says, although she can't hold back a whine when Lovett's fingers leave her to grab onto her hip.

Lovett's mouth is speedy, kissing the corner of her mouth and nipping at her bottom lip, tonguing along her teeth. Lovett's the can't-sit-still type, Ronan knows that already, but this is more than that; this is a Lovett, she's pretty sure, who's still very much open to Ronan getting to touch her some more.

"If I told you to take your jeans off," Ronan manages, between kisses, "how would you feel about that?"

"Really fucking good," Lovett tells her, kneeling up and getting her fly open in about the amount of time it takes Ronan to open her eyes to watch. So: yeah, really fucking motivated to get Ronan to touch her. That works for Ronan.

Lovett has to get halfway standing to work the jeans and her underwear actually off, but then she's back, rearranging their legs again so she can spread hers.

Lovett stark naked is a fucking sight to behold. Her thighs—Ronan wants to _bite_ them, god, and she hasn't shaved or waxed or whatever as much as Ronan has, so the curls between her legs are thicker. Ronan wishes she'd pulled her own dress off while Lovett was up, just so she could press their bodies together, skin to skin all the way down. Ronan wants to feel how wet Lovett is, right now.

"God, you're gorgeous," Ronan says. She wants to touch Lovett everywhere, but she has the sense Lovett will get fussy if Ronan doesn't mostly get right to it. She runs her hands down Lovett's back and squeezes her ass, though, because that seems vitally important, and because it means she can stroke her fingertips in and in until—Jesus—until she feels fuzz and then just soft, inviting wetness.

Lovett sucks in a breath. "What do you like?" Ronan asks her, curling up to kiss her jaw and running gentle fingertips down towards her clit. She'll rearrange in a moment to reach between Lovett's legs instead, but she wants to hear Lovett's answer first. 

"I—god." Lovett's already shifting against her hand. "That's so—god, your fingers—uh, circles? Circles, kind of—yeah, oh fuck."

"I can do circles," Ronan says, rearranging and hauling Lovett's hips a little closer. She's getting the feeling that too much pressure is rarely an issue for Lovett the way it can be for Ronan, but she starts off easy anyway, letting the near side of the circle just rock the shaft of Lovett's clit to one side as her finger goes around.

Fuck, Ronan loves this, loves the feeling of a clit under the pad of her finger, and loves how much Lovett clearly wants it: Lovett is holding herself up, arms braced up by Ronan's head, and Ronan can sense her starting to tremble.

"That's it," Ronan tells her. "God, you feel so good." She's been imagining this for a week and could never have pictured this, Lovett hot against her fingers, breath shivering out of her.

Lovett lets her head sag; Ronan thinks she'll go to her elbows next. She wants to make Lovett come again, just like this, holding herself up for it. Holding herself up for Ronan.

Ronan dips inside Lovett, just a little, to re-wet her fingertips, and Lovett gasps for air. "Is that good?" Ronan asks. "You want more?" She has two hands, and she doesn't have to hold herself up.

"Just—a little. Shallow. It's—so good already."

That's what Ronan likes to hear. Not for nothing, but she's _good_ with her fingers. It's not compensating for what she doesn't do, or at least not entirely: sometimes she gets herself off thinking about this, the hot wet feel of fingering someone, the slide of a clit under her touch.

She gets her other hand in the game, stroking just barely up into Lovett, mostly just petting her. This is where half the really good nerve endings are, anyway, and Lovett's so soft and slick that Ronan has to shut her eyes for a moment and breathe through it herself. She's sure she's already said it, but— "You feel so good. _So_ fucking hot."

Lovett gasps out a laugh. "Sweet talker," she manages, but it turns into a moan as Ronan rubs more emphatically, catching her clit a little harder.

Lovett's elbows are shaking, and Ronan's not surprised at all when Lovett drops down onto them, leaning up over Ronan with her face in Ronan's hair. "Fuck," Lovett groans. "Like—yes—"

Yeah. Just like this. Ronan feels like a goddamned champion, making Lovett feel this good just with the tips of her fingers. Making Lovett's breaths louder, faster, broken up with high-pitched noises now. Making Lovett's hips roll like she's desperate for a little more friction, a little more pressure.

Ronan can give that to her, and does, and Lovett squeaks into Ronan's hair, hips jerking.

"That's it," Ronan tells her. She's sweating through her dress, god, everything about this is the hottest possible thing. "That's it, come on, baby, you got it."

Lovett whines, loud and sudden, and then she's shaking hard enough to make the sofa creak, hips stuttering in the air, thighs squeezing down around Ronan's hands as much as they can with Lovett's knees still spread wide. Lovett stops breathing for a long moment, then sucks in air in big, half-choked gasps.

"Oh—oh my god," Lovett mumbles, and Ronan gets her hands up to Lovett's hips just in time to help gentle her down as she collapses on top of Ronan.

Ronan smoothes her hand down Lovett's sweat-sticky back, kisses the side of her head. It feels like—not like a first time. It feels like they're something more than that, already. "God, I should have known you'd be amazing at that too," Lovett says, muffled against Ronan's hair. "Fuck."

Well, now she feels downright smug, too. "You, too. That was, like—that was a lot faster than I usually can do. I guess I was pretty inspired."

Lovett hums, a pleased noise, and rolls off Ronan onto her hip. She's still pressed close, but now the parts of Ronan bared to the air by her pushed-up dress are getting chilled. She wants to get into bed. She wants both of them to get into her bed, so she can stay this close to Lovett until she falls asleep.

Lovett is more physically demonstrative than Ronan was expecting after meeting her the first time, which works great for Ronan. Maybe—she'll want to stay. Maybe she's a sleep cuddler sometimes too.

"So, uh," Ronan says, trying not to sound awkward, "I think this was probably implied but just in case: would you like to stay tonight? Because I would like that.”

"Here?" Lovett asks.

"Uh, not here on the couch, here," Ronan says. "I have a bed and everything. And I can make—well. Cereal, at least. Toast. I can order in food, if those aren't your—" Lovett's mouth interrupts her, soft on Ronan's.

"Yeah. That sounds great. Yeah," Lovett says, and kisses her again. Ronan's smiling too wide to kiss her back.

***

Ronan's got the phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder but she's still going to kick that zombie's decaying butt before Lovett does.

“Over—there,” Ronan mumbles, just as Lovett starts yelling “Got him! Got him!”

Ronan’s learned that Lovett’s _got him_ rarely actually means she’s gotten anything, so she keeps shooting. “Just—a—second,” she grits out, dodging.

Lovett's character is firing a lot of bullets but doesn't seem to have actually hit anything. Meanwhile, Ronan takes a risk and comes out of hiding, and—

"I _had_ him!" Lovett protests, over Ronan's well-earned noise of victory. "I absolutely had him!"

“Sure you did,” Ronan tells her, agreeably. “Any second. Can we check out that cave now?”

Lovett grumbles, also pretty agreeably, and they walk off towards the cave. “My dad’s mad at me,” Lovett says. “I mean, what’s new, but I refused some vital financial advice—his view, not mine—and I got full-named and everything.”

"Eesh," Ronan says, sympathetically. "Full-named, huh?" Lovett has been kind of reticent to talk to Ronan about her dad, but Ronan's been trying to encourage it where she can. Lovett can talk to her about anything.

“Oh, yes. The full _Jonathan I—_“

“Wait, what?”

“What, what?”

“Your first name is Jonathan? I thought it was ... Joan,” Ronan says, trailing off as she realizes that makes less sense out loud than it did in her unexamined assumption. 

Lovett snorts. "Because Jon from Joan makes more sense?"

"Honestly, I thought it would be something less masculine," Ronan admits, "which thinking about it, is bullshit, sorry."

“Ehh,” Lovett says. “I guess it hasn’t come up.”

“Which is funny, because usually I end up in lengthy name conversations pretty early, since mine is so weird. I guess we’ve been talking about a million other things.”

"Yours isn't that weird, right?" Lovett says. "Oh, on your right!" Ronan dutifully stabs the walking skeleton shambling towards them. "_Nice_. I mean, Ronan's not that odd?"

“Have you just ... not googled me at all?” Ronan swings around; where there’s one walking skeleton, there might be a horde. “Like. At _all_.”

“Uh—should I have?” Lovett’s sweeping for skeletons, too. Ronan likes that this game is easy enough to let them have a conversation right through it.

"No, uh, just normally people do." It's not something Ronan likes, per se, but she's tried to get used to it. The information's out there, after all, and even without all the childhood stuff, her mom's a name on her own.

She can almost hear Lovett shrug through the phone. "I looked a bit before that event with Mandy, before we met, but just like, out of, uh, unflattering paranoia on my part that my celebrity co-panelist was going to outshine me, let's not dwell on that. And then we were, you know—" Lovett's inability to say the word dating when it applies to herself is truly something "—and I figured if there was something you wanted me to know, you'd tell me."

“I—yeah,” Ronan says. She can hear the fondness in her own voice; she hopes Lovett can. “Well. Anyway. My legal first name is Satchel.”

There’s a pause. Ronan braces herself for the jokes. Sure, she’s heard it all, but not from Lovett; at least these stand a chance of being something other than the usual.

"Satchel," Lovett repeats. "Huh. Does anyone call you that? Would you like them to?"

Ronan fumbles her controller and then almost drops the phone when she shifts to catch it. It takes her a second to get reoriented, and when the phone's back on her ear, Lovett's saying, "—never mind, sorry, I—"

"No, no, it's—I dropped the phone," Ronan says. "No, I—thank you for asking. Um, sometimes my siblings call me that, but usually only as a joke. I tried out another couple of names when I was a kid, but I'd rather be Ronan than anything else. With everybody."

"Got it," Lovett says. "I used to go by Jon sometimes, but there were always other Jons around. It was easier to just go with Lovett."

That tracks. Even in Lovett's department at the White House, she wasn't the only Jon. Admittedly the other Jon was a six foot tall guy with a buzz cut, a gap in his teeth, and a catalog model look about him, but still. He was a Jon.

"Did you mind it?" Ronan asks, scanning the cave again. She can hear a suspicious skittering that's making her think another skeleton wave isn't far off. "Do you like going by Lovett?"

“Better than Jonny,” Lovett says. “Or ‘Love.’” Ronan can hear the shudder of distaste.

“Jonathan, though,” Ronan says. “It’s a nice name. Suits you.”

Lovett snorts. "Unwieldy and unexpected?"

Ronan laughs. “Bigger than you look,” she corrects. “More going on then people might assume.” Jonathan. It does fit. “Do you hate it?”

“What’s to hate?” Lovett asks. “It’s too long to use, that’s all. Tell someone that’s your name, the first question after ‘should I be using different pronouns?’ is ‘so is it Jon or Jonny or Joanie?’”

"Well, I know your pronouns," Ronan says. "And _Joanie_? Ew."

"I knew I liked you for a reason," Lovett says, and stabs a wandering skeleton. "Ha!"

They have to stop talking for a moment because Ronan was right and the skeletons attack. By the time they're done, Ronan is down a lot of health and Lovett has levelled up and is smug about it.

"What I was _going_ to say," Ronan continues, over the sound of Lovett cheerfully gloating, "is that ... I could call you Jonathan. If you liked. Like... just for us."

“It’s long,” Lovett says, which isn’t a no. Ronan’s pretty sure, actually, that it’s a question.

“You’re worth way more extra syllables than that,” Ronan says. “I just don’t think you’d like it if I full-named you like your dad did.”

"Well, no, I wouldn't," Lovett says, and then, and Ronan doesn't think she's imagining the slight hesitation: "but that's not how you'd be doing it." 

“No,” Ronan agrees. They’re walking in circles now, not entering the cave yet. “No, just—fondness. Stuff like that. You know, like, ‘great job with those skeletons, Jonathan’ or, uh, ‘Mom, this is my girlfriend, Jonathan.’”

Even Lovett's character stops. "Your girlfriend Jonathan, huh?"

They had this talk in DC, when Lovett was about to move cross-country and Ronan was applying to move _out_ of the country and neither of them wanted to let go. But they'd been scared, both of them, of big change and of a commitment they couldn't keep, and so they'd left it at _seeing each other_. But now—they might still be scared, but, god, Ronan wants this to be something.

It is something.

"Yes," she says, trying not to bite her lip. "Is that okay?"

“I mean, I don’t want to play Diablo 3 with anyone else. Though that’s partially a commentary on Diablo 3, obviously.” She pauses. “That’s a yes. Definite yes.”

Ronan is for sure too old to feel this giddy about this, but. She does. She knows Lovett can hear the smile in her voice when she says, "My girlfriend Jonathan. It sounds—" her thin veneer of smoothness cracks completely "—amazing."

"Oh, well, if my girlfriend Ronan thinks so, then that's just—settled, then," Lovett says. "Um. Not to sound too stereotypically hot for commitment, but what if we turned the game off for a while?"

"You have the best suggestions," Ronan says. She's already readjusting on her couch, dropping the controller.

"Skype?" Lovett—Jonathan—asks.

"Sure," Ronan says. "I'm gonna hang up on you, hang on." She hangs up and opens Skype. It gives her a _user not online_ message. She waits a minute, and then her phone rings, not Skype, just Lo—Jonathan calling her back.

"Hey?" Ronan says, closing and reopening Skype. "Is it your internet or mine that's fucking up?"

"Can't tell," Jonathan says. "The game was working fine. Maybe it's the app?"

Ronan shifts in place. "We could raincheck." She suspects the disappointment is maybe too clear in her voice, but one nice thing about Jonathan's contrarian nature is there's little risk of accidentally guilting her into something she doesn't want.

"Or we could just—the phone's good, too. I mean, not as good, because you're gorgeous and I want to see you, but I'll take it for today."

A lot of people have told Ronan she's gorgeous in her life but no one has ever made her feel the way Jonathan does about it. Her girlfriend Jonathan. Yes, Ronan can take the phone for today. She'll take anything.

"I want you," she tells Jonathan. "Any way we can."

"Good," Jonathan says. "Because right now I'm thinking about kissing down your throat. That spot you like on the side, you know? Maybe you don't have anywhere to be for a week, so I can just bite the hell out of it. You want that?"

Ronan presses the fingertips of her free hand to her throat, just where Jonathan means, and digs in the edge of her nail just enough to feel it. "Yeah," she says, clutching the phone. "I want that. I want to—hold you there."

"Mm, into that," Jonathan agrees. "What else are you doing?"

Sixteen things at once, because her imagination isn't limited by physics. She can pick one, though. "Probably getting a hand under your shirt and waiting for you to give me the go-ahead to take it off."

"You have a one-track mind, and that track is—tits," Jonathan says, after a pause that Ronan's absolutely certain was a swift decision about word choice.

"Absolutely I do," Ronan agrees. "Yours are spectacular."

"If you're so into them, I guess I’ll take my shirt off right then for you," Jonathan says, and there's a rustle of clothing that's probably—

"Did you?" Ronan asks. "Now?"

"I—yeah, was that not—?"

"No, no, it's good," Ronan rushes to clarify. "It's hot. You're in the living room?"

"Yeah, but the shades are closed. And let's pretend I'm wearing that bra you really like."

"If you're wearing a bra at all I'm kind of surprised."

"Oh, I am not. You're picturing it, aren't you?"

Of course Ronan is picturing it. It feels like ages since they last saw each other, even though it's really only been a month, but it's been too long without seeing Jonathan, clothes or no clothes. And, currently, Ronan is thinking very much about no clothes.

"Instead of pretending you're wearing that bra I really like," Ronan suggests, "what if we think about how I would get to pinch your—" the dirty talk is coming easier, but still isn't _easy_ "—nipples, right then." 

"Oh, jumping right to it," Jonathan says. Her voice is warm and inviting. "You think I'm gonna say no to that? Because I'm definitely not gonna say no to that. Especially when I'm busy sucking on your neck."

"Good, so that's settled, then." Ronan can't keep the laugh out of her voice. "Are you—are you pinching them for me? Now?"

"Not—" Ronan can hear Jonathan shifting again, and then her breath catching in her throat. "Yeah, now I am. How—how hard are you doing it? How hard should I pinch them for you?"

Jonathan seems to know exactly how to make heat rush through Ronan, how to make Ronan need to roll her hips and squeeze her thighs together. "Jesus. Pretty—pretty hard. And twist them? If I were there, I'd—I'd get my mouth on them, too, but for now, twist them for me. While I take my pants off, because oh my god, Jonathan."

"'Oh my god, Jonathan,' is really working for me, actually."

Ronan's wriggling out of her pants, so she puts the phone on speaker for a second. They both prefer it off speaker: something about the intimacy, feeling like they're the only two people in the world. She picks the phone back up and rubs her hand over herself once she's down to her underwear, just to take the edge off. "Oh my _god_, Jonathan."

"What'd you just—I like that noise. And the repetition, obviously, but—what'd you just do?"

God. Ronan's still working on being able to describe touching herself, and not just touching Jonathan. "I, uh. Gave myself some quick friction and pressure."

"Yeah? Uh, over or under your underwear? I want to know what I'd be looking at."

"Over," Ronan says, feeling her face heat up. "Just quickly. Because—you get me so fucking hot."

"Fuck." It's more a groan than a word. "I'd do that for you. I'd get a hand on your, uh, pussy so you could grind against it."

After running entirely out of words on a previous call, they've agreed they can use both of the—terms. Ronan hasn't actually quite managed it yet. She'll get there. Jonathan's still stumbling over them, which makes her feel better about it. But it's outrageously hot hearing Jonathan actually _say_ them, and Ronan does want Jonathan to get to have that kind of hotness reflected back to her. At some point.

"I'd love that," Ronan says, and slides her hand back down like Jonathan really is there, like it's Jonathan's fingers cupping her through the fabric. "I'd hold you there too. So I could—use your hand while I was making you groan."

“Yeah. Yeah. Uh, not to toot my own horn too much, but we’re getting really good at this.”

“Really good,” Ronan agrees. “Touch—take your pants off. Take everything off, I wanna—if I were there, I’d want to see you.”

She can sense Jonathan bite back a self-disparaging comment about that, which—well, at least she didn't say it out loud while Ronan is actively trying to get her off, which she's definitely done before. "Hang on," Jonathan says instead, and there's the sound of the phone hitting the couch, of Jonathan taking off her clothes.

Ronan could look at her forever, honestly.

She can picture it really well, by this point. Not well enough that she doesn’t wish Skype had worked, but well enough that she can shut her eyes and just about see Jonathan’s thigh muscles and her dark bush, pressed flat by being in clothes all day.

If she were there now, she'd be able to tell how turned on Jonathan is. She'd be able to see how pink her nipples already are, how well pinched they look; she'd be able to slip a hand between Jonathan's legs and touch her, get Jonathan giggling the way she sometimes does the first time she's touched.

"Are you—are you wet for me?" Ronan blurts.

Jonathan's startled noise is clear right through the phone line. "I—yeah. Really—getting there. If you were here I'd be wetter, I bet, just from kissing you."

Ronan's chest aches a little with how much she wants to kiss Jonathan. "I'd be running my fingers along—you, feeling out how wet you are. Refusing to give you all the pressure you want yet, maybe. Just teasing."

"You're such a fucking tease," Jonathan says, but it doesn't sound like a complaint. "God. I'd be taking your top off too. Equal opportunity tits."

"I'm, yes, yeah. I'm not wearing anything but my underwear now, you can—touch anything you want." Ronan cups them herself, the way Jonathan likes to do, and says, "I'm—you're holding them. Pressing them together a little."

"God. I want to see that. And I'm definitely moving from your neck down to your nipples now. Just gentle, like, flicking my tongue and rubbing the other one with my thumb, you know?"

Ronan definitely knows. She tries to flick one and rub the other without dropping the phone, and lets Jonathan hear how nice it feels.

"That's such a good noise." Jonathan is starting to sound breathy. "You make such fucking good noises, god."

"Yeah? You, too. I love the way you sound." Oops. Too late to recast the sentence with like instead; she'll just keep talking. "Are you—tell me what you're doing now, are you rubbing against your hand?" Jonathan likes that, much more than Ronan does; she says she mostly gets off by lying on her front, riding her own knuckles. If Ronan tried that, she's pretty sure she'd be too sore and overstimulated to come at all.

Ronan has learned what she likes slowly, and what she likes a lot of the time _is_ slowly, whereas Jonathan needs much more pressure much faster, and can come almost at the drop of a hat. Between them, they've probably got a sex toy for all occasions.

"I'm, yeah. But I'm doing it the way you do it for me. Leaning back and using my fingertips, like you're here instead."

"God. Yeah, that's good. You can—when you need more, you can turn over, I don't want you to not, um, get what you need."

"Oh, this is—this is definitely working," Jonathan tells her. "It's really, really working."

Ronan sinks further back into the couch cushions, trailing her fingers back over her neck. Sometimes she likes this too, holding off. It's good, especially when she hasn't got a vibrator to hand. "Yeah? Tell—tell me about that. Tell me how it's making you feel, baby."

She doesn't call Jonathan that all the time but when she does—

"Oh, fuck," Jonathan groans. "Oh god, I hate that I'm so easy for that."

"No, you don't."

"No, I really don't."

“Feels—good. Wet. I don’t usually use my fingertips like you do, and it’s, uh, it changes how I experience it from the perspective of my hand. That sounds stupid.”

“No, I think I get it. What are your fingertips doing now?”

"They're, uh—I'm rubbing my, um, clit, uh, two fingers, just to the side, like—god—like you do. You'd be doing that too, huh? You could make me—I could c-come before you let me do more to you." The hitch in Jonathan's voice is going to melt Ronan to bits right here on the couch.

Ronan wants to say _yeah, come for me_ and she wants to say _tell me what else you'll do_ and she wants to stay silent and let Jonathan keep talking. She lands on, "You sound so good. I'd make you come, I lo—I'm so into making you come, it's so great."

"Yeah, I'm pretty in favor of it," Jonathan gets out, and then: "Ronan, I'm really close, I—"

Fuck. Ronan starts touching herself properly, feeling out how wet she is, where she aches. Jonathan on the verge of coming is indescribably hot: flushed chest, red face, expression screwing up like she's trying to stop it.

"You should come," Ronan tells her. "Fuck, Jonathan, come for me, let me hear you."

Jonathan's so fucking easy for it: Ronan can hear in her gasps that she's coming already, almost as soon as Ronan says she should. "That's so good," Ronan tells her. "Oh my god, Jonathan, that's so fucking hot. Tell—tell me what you're gonna do next?"

She means _to yourself_ but Jonathan, still catching her breath, must not have heard it that way. "Wanna eat you out, so fucking much. I'd make it so good for you, Ronan, I'd be so, like, anything you want. Slow and gentle, anything." 

Ronan's hand stutters. She tries not to hesitate but Jonathan clearly notices: "Or, or, I can use my fingers, got it, slow and gentle with my fingers."

"That's perfect," Ronan says, swallowing. "I want to play with your—your tits more. Maybe make you come again just like that, just from that. Or you could grind on my leg while I'm doing it, that'd be—that would be so hot." She's rambling, knows she is, but she wants to talk until that part of the conversation is buried in a dozen other things, until it's forgotten.

Her heart's beating fast now, not just because of Jonathan's noises or because of the way her fingers feel on her clit.

She focuses on Jonathan properly, stilling her own hand. That's good, that's better. "What are you doing now? Did you turn over, like, like you could grind against me?"

“I—yeah, I’m gonna turn over.” There’s a long, distant rustle and then Jonathan’s back. “Got into bed. My couch is getting kind of—I need to start getting into bed when we get going. Or, like. Keep a towel handy.”

Ronan laughs. “Your poor couch. Putting up with so much.” She shifts tones, getting back into it: “Because you get so wet, don’t you? Especially after I make you come the first time.”

"So wet," Jonathan agrees. "It's—sometimes I can't believe what you do to me."

"God. Me too, I feel like that too. Every time, you make me come, like, thirty minutes before I think I'm gonna. Let me—I want to get you off again, so much. Are you riding your hand like it's me? I want you to."

"What—about you?" Jonathan says, but Ronan can hear that she'll be easily distracted, that she can be ramped up again. "Yeah, yes, I'm riding my hand, like—like I'm straddling your thigh, like you're holding my hips."

"That's so perfect, yeah," Ronan tells her. "Riding my leg while I suck on your—nipples," reaching for and failing to reach _tits_. It's a little harder to talk dirty when her own arousal is starting to drain away, as much as she's enjoying helping Jonathan get off. She gives up on touching herself and lies back on the sofa, hand on her belly. "I bet you can come for me just from this, can't you? Are you—can you play with your nipples with your other hand?"

"Without dropping the phone?" Jonathan asks, breathlessly, but it must be rhetorical, because there's some rustling and then, "Oh mother of fuck, that's—Ronan, that's so good."

"Good," Ronan tells her, listening to Jonathan pant on the other end of the line. "Good, that's what I want. Want to—feel you wet on my thigh, feel you needing it."

"Fuck," Jonathan says again, strangled. "Fuck, you're so—even on the fucking phone—"

Ronan doesn’t need to get off; she’s warm with pride and pleasure from this, from Jonathan thinking she’s good at it. Suddenly it feels much easier to reach for the words. “Rub your clit on me, baby, I want to feel you come. Want to play with your tits until you beg to—“

“_Fuck_,” Jonathan interrupts, loud and sharp. Her breathing fills the phone line, her wet gasps telling an even better story than Ronan was trying to craft.

"Just like that, that's it. Keep going, baby, really show me, really rub off for me, give me one more."

"You're—trying to—kill me—oh, _fuck_—" and honestly Ronan's kind of in awe of how much Jonathan can come, one after the other, tumbling desperately through them.

Ronan lets her relax after that, both of them breathing together on the line. "That was so good," Ronan says, softly. "That was, like. Everything I wanted." She hopes it conveys _we can stop now_ in the gentlest, nicest way possible.

Jonathan makes a faintly confused noise. "But you didn't—" and she cuts herself off. "Right, okay."

"It was really fucking hot," Ronan says. "I'm gonna be thinking about it for, like. A week at least." She hopes that sends the message. "Are you gonna stay in bed and fall asleep, or do you have more stuff to do?" She means _keep talking to me._

"I'm gonna stay here for a while," Jonathan says. "I think you melted me. But, uh, no, no stuff to do. Do you need—are you busy now?"

"No!" Ronan says, too fast. "No, I—I can stay on the phone a while. Kind of want to hear more about your name, for one. Are you named after someone?"

Instead of answering, Jonathan yawns. "Shit, sorry. You wore me out." There's a pause, and the sound of sheets rustling: probably Jonathan turning back over, flopping onto her back in the bed. "Hey, uh—look, we don't have to talk about it a lot or anything, if you don't want, but—we don't have to talk about oral, you know? Is that—you can tell me."

Ronan puts a hand over her eyes. "I, uh. I just don't—do that. With anyone. I'm not—"

"Okay," Jonathan rushes to say, a gentler _it's fine_ except that Jonathan isn't saying that, maybe, because she's saying, "Either—either way? Because I can live without getting, it's just hard to imagine never going down on you."

That... isn't what Ronan was expecting. "I've never done it the, uh, active way," she says slowly, instead of saying _I don't_. That doesn't feel right. "Just—the other way, in one, uh, relationship. It didn't—I didn't—" Her words aren't coming out right. It sounds stupid in her head, even though if someone else was telling her these feelings, if she was listening to someone else, she'd be their staunchest supporter.

"You don't have to tell me," Jonathan says, not interrupting this time so much as taking the space she's leaving. "You can, but you don't have to."

That makes it a little easier. That, and everything about Jonathan, really. Ronan wants to trust her, so much, and there's so much Ronan always has to be cautious about. Her family, and her childhood traumas, and her professional reputation, and—too many things. Ronan wants Jonathan to be exactly who she seems: someone Ronan could trust with all of it, given time.

That makes it easier to close her eyes behind her hand, and try to explain. "This guy I was seeing, he, uh. It was so _awkward_, and I don't think he was into it but he kept initiating it, but he made these _faces_—"

Jonathan is very, very quiet. Ronan says, trying to make it clear enough, "It was never—it wasn't that I said no, or—or would have. He was the one who didn't really, uh. But he kept doing it anyway, and it made me feel ..." She swallows. There's no way she's letting any of those words out, not even to Jonathan. She doesn't even really say them to herself. "So I don't let anyone, um."

Jonathan's quiet for another beat, maybe waiting to see if Ronan's done, and then she says, "That sounds like it sucked."

Some of the tension floods out of Ronan, making her laugh. "Yeah," she says. "It really did."

"That would make anybody—man. Sorry, I'm just really mad at that guy now. Is that okay? You can tell me to shut up, I'm just—like, not to sound too much like a stereotype, but eating pussy is the fucking best thing in the universe and it's, like. One, I'm judging him intensely for not getting that, and mostly two, I'm judging him _so_ much for managing to ruin it for you, twice, which is like—is he a supervillain? Did he have a fluffy white cat he liked to pet while being a supervillain? Did he have a lair? Did he kidnap orphans and—"

Ronan, despite herself, bursts into giggles.

"All right, good, you get it," Jonathan is saying, laughing too. "Supervillain, party of one."

"He did actually have a cat," Ronan says, and sets them both off again. It feels good, kind of freeing: she let it out, and Jonathan went right there with her, at her side.

When the laughter eventually rolls to a stop, Ronan's sure Jonathan's going to push a little—gently, thoughtfully, but take this and run with it—but instead Jonathan says, "My mom's granddad. That's who I'm named after," and it feels like a gift.

***

They do eventually have to hang up, as stupid as it’s starting to seem, and Ronan makes herself a dinner and eats it at her desk, trying not to get sardines on anything important. It's late, and Jonathan texts her three times to tell her to actually go to sleep, so she folds herself into bed earlier than usual, and thinks about their call.

She knows this feeling, this lying in bed smiling dreamily feeling. She’s had it before, but—not like this. She’s pretty sure it’s never been like this.

She’s never told anyone about her oral aversion, for one. No one’s ever exactly asked; they’ve gone with it when she redirected them. Jonathan asking was good, though, because Ronan wants to tell Jonathan stuff. Increasingly she feels like she wants to tell Jonathan everything, and she’s having to hold back from going into too much, too soon.

When she does tell Jonathan things, Jonathan _listens_. She has questions, but she doesn't push Ronan to answer. She gives Ronan outs if she wants them, waits for Ronan to think through her train of thoughts.

Jonathan’s also stubborn and interrupts less important topics constantly and is outright incorrect about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but she’s really—special.

Ronan rolls over and pushes her face into the pillow. She feels like a giddy tween with a crush, except that Jonathan likes her _back._

And wants to—well.

She swallows. If she can't think it in the privacy of her own head in her own dark bedroom with her face in a pillow, when can she?

Jonathan wants to—go down on her. There. That much she can think. Jonathan wants to put her face between Ronan's legs and—

She feels a distinct throb, the sudden re-awareness of nerve endings. The way Jonathan had talked about it _had_ been pretty compelling. The best thing in the world? Something like that. And if she thinks that, then probably she’s pretty, um. Enthusiastic. Thorough.

If she's anything like as enthusiastic or thorough as she is at everything else they've done in bed, then... that's a pretty compelling thought. And there is no world where Jonathan does anything she doesn't want to, so she'd never initiate something she wasn't into. _Best thing in the world._

Ronan squeezes her thighs together, feeling the way her body’s responding to the idea. Maybe, with Jonathan. Maybe. She lifts her head to check the time on her phone. Ugh. Jonathan being on the west coast is not helping with Ronan’s insomniac tendencies.

Her sleep schedule can't really even be called a schedule anymore, but at least she can try and get some sleep now.

She’s got time to think about this tomorrow. And maybe talk to Jonathan about it. But for right now: sleep.

***

Ronan fails to mention her new thoughts about maybe, possibly being open to trying oral again for more than a week.

The biggest reason is, she swears, just that Jonathan is so fun and distracting and chatty. There’s never time; she’s busy learning everything about Jonathan that she can, hungry for every detail.

For example: Jonathan couldn't pick a Bat Mitsvah theme so she ended up with a selection of cardboard cutouts of video games she liked; Jonathan makes her own art for her walls and it turns out fucking fantastic; Jonathan drives like she's being chased, every single time.

“I’m not riding in your car,” Ronan tells her. “I’ll get a cab from the airport.”

“I’m a great driver! A good—an adequate driver. Maybe for you I’ll take it down a notch.”

“Several notches and I’ll think about it,” Ronan tells her. 

"How much damage do you think I can do in LA traffic?" Lovett says, and then: "Shut up, shut up, don't answer that." She pauses. "Hey, uh. I've missed you. Not like—this is good, the, the, long distance thing. Just also—I've missed seeing you. I contain multitudes."

“Me too,” Ronan says. “I’m really looking forward to the trip. I keep editing my packing list because it makes it feel more real.”

Jonathan laughs, soft. “I should say I’ve been cleaning or something but mostly I just lie around thinking about it and being, like, happy.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Ronan kids, sure that isn’t what Jonathan means. Well, not entirely what she means.

"I mean, not no," Jonathan says. Ronan can hear her grinning.

“But you are also planning for clothes-on parts of the trip, right?” She makes herself sound haughty: “I have _grand_ expectations for being squired around town, you know.”

"Oh, what, now my driving is acceptable? When it suits your whims?" 

"Of course," Ronan says, playing along. "What more do you expect?"

Jonathan scoffs. “See if I take you to all the restaurants I’ve been scoping out.”

“You will,” Ronan says. “Because it’s that or cook, and I think we both know that’s not an option.”

"Hey!" Jonathan says, and relents immediately. "No, no, you're so right. But there's this fucking great barbecue place I have to take you, oh my god, the _wings_."

"Into it," Ronan says. "Any cultural venues? Great works of art? Beautiful vistas?"

"Oh, I'm planning to visit some beautiful vistas, but that's still the clothes-off portion," Jonathan teases. "And Los Angeles is a cultural wasteland."

"Spoken like a New Yorker. A white New Yorker," Ronan says, laughing. "What about the, uh, California Science Center?" If Jonathan doesn't want to google, Ronan can.

"Stop googling!" Jonathan says. "You're visiting me, not the great state of California." She pauses. "What's at the Science Center?"

Ronan grins into the empty room. "Well, they're getting the space shuttle, but not until October. Some other good exhibits, though. And you like science."

"Oh, well, if you insist," Jonathan says, her voice warm. "What else is there? I do feel like I owe you some good outings this time after you helped me unpack on the last trip.” 

"I’ll find some more stuff. But also, um, if you owe me, then one of these times you could come visit," Ronan says, and then, recklessly, "You could come to Connecticut and meet my mom and my sister and everybody."

Jonathan is quiet for a second, but she gets quiet when she's thinking. Ronan waits for her. "Really? Like. To the farm?"

The more Ronan thinks about it, the more she wants it to happen. Jonathan standing by the farm lake. Jonathan meeting Ronan's family. Jonathan being forced to look at endless baby photos of Ronan in increasingly terrible outfits. "Really," she says. "Uh, if you'd like. I know it's maybe kind of soon—"

"Yes," Jonathan interrupts. "I mean, yes, maybe it's kind of soon, but. Yes. Yes, I'd like."

If Ronan was smiling before, she doesn't even know what to call this; her cheeks hurt from stretching her mouth this wide. Her whole body feels warm and happy. "Awesome. That sounds great. Whenever you can get the time, I guess."

"From my exciting TV life? Mmm, yes, I'm very busy and important." Maybe Ronan's projecting, but Jonathan sounds as happy and excited as Ronan feels.

"Well, we'll all be very impressed," Ronan says, but—yes, they will. She is. Jonathan is impressive, no matter what she says.

“Oh, your movie star mom and your forty-five siblings will be impressed? Absolutely. No chance of any other outcome. No need to be nervous at all.”

"What? Of course, they'll love you." Ronan’s getting closer and closer to being sure _she_ does, after all.

“I do give good parent,” Jonathan muses. “Boomers love me. Even my own dad mostly loves me.” She pauses, then says, “Okay, I played that back in my head and I just want to clarify that’s a joke about the tension between me and my dad, not—any other dad situations.”

"Noted," Ronan says, dryly, and then, "it's okay, you know? I don't have the monopoly on complicated parental relationships. Maybe, uh, a certain expertise, but not a monopoly."

Jonathan laughs, like Ronan had hoped.

“Dysfunctional families are all unique, or whatever it is Nabakov said,” Jonathan agrees. “Mine isn’t that bad, really. I just wish Fox News would disappear off the face of the earth.”

“I might pick tabloids, if we only get one,” Ronan muses. “Is that a fair trade? You get Fox Business too, I get a wide selection of yellow journalism rags?”

"Deal. Let's shake on it when you get here. Let's... more than shake on it."

"Is that how people in Los Angeles seal their deals?"

Jonathan hmms, buying time to find a joke, then says, "Sex or human sacrifices, it's one or the other. You should have seen the TV contract, it's just—blood everywhere. Really a mess. Hard to photocopy, you know?" 

"TV life sounds darker than I imagined," Ronan says, lying back on the couch, kicking her feet up. She could stay here for hours with Jonathan's voice in her ear, Jonathan making her laugh. "Is it all True Blood and pentagrams over there?"

"Oh, yeah." Jonathan's in her element now, with a bit she can carry. "I mean, the rituals are more exhausting than the meetings, and that's saying something. All that Latin, like, can we update this shit?"

"Vatican II time," Ronan says, and then pauses, not sure that reference is going to work.

Jonathan hiccups, half a laugh. "You stopped because you think I don't know what that means, didn't you?"

"Uh—"

"And you're entirely right. There's a second Vatican? Was one not enough?"

"Depends who you ask," Ronan says. "Do you think that would make a difference to your rigorous meeting schedule?"

Jonathan just laughs. “You’re kind of the best. You know that? I never know what you’re going to say.”

Ronan could very much say the same. Instead, heart in her throat, she says, “I wanted to talk to you about, uh.”

Jonathan waits a beat, then says, in a tone that’s past serious and well into nervous, “What’s up?”

Ronan's almost too nervous herself to clock it for a moment, and then she gets it. "What—no, not like, ‘we need to talk’ wanted to talk. I feel—very much the opposite of that. That's sort of—I wanted to—" Nothing's coming out right. She takes a breath and tries again. "So, uh, you know the other week we were talking about how I don't do, um, oral?"

“Yeah,” Jonathan acknowledges, softly.

“You were very, um. You gave me a lot to think about. About maybe, with you, it—I could try again. Maybe.”

"You don't have to," Jonathan says quickly. "If you don't—I wasn't pushing, or anything. Whatever you want."

"I think I want," Ronan says, feeling the words out, "to try again. Because—I want to try with you. Specifically."

“When you come to LA?” Jonathan asks, but something in her voice makes Ronan sure she’s guessed Ronan wants to start now.

“Yeah. But also you could—talk to me about it. Now. If you want.”

Ronan isn't sure what she's expecting: something like _twist my arm_, maybe, or a joke, but what she gets is sincere: "I'd like that," Jonathan says. "Let's—yeah, yes, get comfortable."

Ronan was working when Jonathan called; she actually does need to get comfortable. She turns the blinds down and strips, efficient, already feeling how excited-nervous-excited she’s gotten just from finally voicing it.

“Okay,” she says, breathless, when she picks the phone back up. “Are you—did you get comfortable? Too?”

"If by comfortable you mean naked," Jonathan says, "absolutely yes. All right, I've got shorts on still. But the rest of me, yes."

“Shirtless in shorts is just how you play video games, isn’t it?”

Jonathan laughs. “Sometimes. I swear I took a shirt off for you today, though, baby.”

"I feel special," Ronan says, but she does, she really does.

"I wanna—I'm gonna come up behind you and wrap my arms around you and kiss the back of your neck," Jonathan says. They agreed, recently, not to talk about regular kissing; it hurts a little too much, not being able to do it. Ronan keeps hearing Jonathan almost say it, though, just like she keeps almost saying it.

"That sounds really nice," Ronan tells her. "I like that. And I can put my hands over yours and, um. Am I already naked in this, too?"

"Yeah," Jonathan says, throaty. "Yeah, you're—no wonder I couldn't keep from touching you. Maybe you just got out of the shower."

Ronan closes her eyes, picturing it. "You like it when I'm wet for you, huh?"

"That's almost too easy," Jonathan says, "but I like it. Yeah, I like it when you're wet for me. Gonna—kiss your neck again, just like you like."

"Press your tits into my back," Ronan tells her. It takes a little bit of effort to just _say_ it, still, but she thinks she's getting better. "You're shirtless, I can feel, um, your nipples getting hard."

"Nice," Jonathan says. "Probably I'm getting frisky with you now, right? I'm sliding my hands up. Or down."

"Down," Ronan says immediately, almost surprising herself. "I want—no teasing this time. Maybe you've been working yourself up while I've been showering. You—can't wait for me."

Jonathan's breath over the phone line is instantly heavier; Ronan wonders if that's just from the idea, or if Jonathan's dialled up touching herself. She doesn't ask; she wants to follow this thread.

"You pull me right into bed," Ronan continues. "After—first you kind of tease me with your fingertips, seeing if I can get into it fast since you're already excited, and I'm—I'm into it, I wasn't expecting that but I'm really into it. So you take my hand and just pull me to the bed."

Jonathan picks it up. "Where I've been touching myself, thinking about you in the shower, yeah, and I can—push you down maybe, just to make you laugh, and then you're just naked on my bed, and you can—uh, you can maybe smell what I was doing before."

“Jesus.” Ronan has been waiting—why the fuck was she waiting?—but she’s fingering herself now, listening. Contributing, she should contribute. “You already came, maybe? Thinking about me. About—what we’re gonna do now.”

"Think about you—so much." Jonathan is already starting to sound strained. Ronan empathises. "And you, you don't want to wait, so you—pull my hair, to, to remind me to get going."

"Yeah? That's how much I, um. I want it?"

"Yeah," Jonathan says, and it's beautifully confident. "Yeah, you want it so much now I've shown you how good I can make it for you. You can't wait for me to eat you out."

"Oh my god," Ronan breathes. When Jonathan says it like that, it sounds—real. It sounds like she knows, like she's understood what Ronan wants and she's going to give it to her. "N-no, I can't wait."

“So you pull my hair—” Okay, Ronan can pick up that hint “—and I start kissing down your belly, making you wait a little. Not too much.”

“And my, um, my inner thighs,” Ronan suggests, because there’s one thing she remembers fondly from the brief period of time she let someone get his mouth on her below the waist.

"And your inner thighs, for sure, gonna spend a while there," Jonathan continues. "Right—right where I can smell how much you want my mouth on you."

Ronan squishes up her face, not entirely sure how she feels about that, but says, "And you—do it," barely evading enough of an intonation rise to turn it into a question.

"Yeah, I, god, I can't help myself, I have to taste you," Jonathan sounds. It's—fucking sincere, is what it is. "I push your thigh out to make room and I just lick into your pussy, getting so close my whole, my chin and my cheeks get soaked, that's how much I'm, that's how much I want to be eating you out."

Ronan's cheeks are burning hot all of a sudden, somewhere between embarrassment and shame and arousal. Arousal is winning, though. It's hard not to hear how much Jonathan means it, how much she's _thought_ about it.

"I'm, it's, um, good," Ronan says. Jesus. "I'm pulling your hair some more?"

"Yeah, that's—that's so good, and I'm gonna be so gentle on your clit, I am, but I'm gonna warm you up all over first, okay? I'm gonna—you're gonna be so blown away by how good all the nerve endings are, I swear, I'll be licking and, and, just, I'll—" Jonathan stutters to a stop, and all Ronan can hear is gasping breath. Did—was that—?

"Did you—oh my god—" because those gasps are familiar now, Jonathan coming down from orgasm, and she just—she _came_, Jonathan _came_ just from, from talking about—? Ronan groans, fingers working. "Oh my god, Jonathan."

Jonathan groans. “Sorry—sorry, I—“

“Don’t be,” Ronan tells her, gladly interrupting. “That’s—just thinking about it did that? Already?”

Jonathan pants out a laugh, almost self-deprecating. "Already, yeah, fucking hell. Wow. I really—I really like that. Um, okay, where were we?"

“Um, you were getting off on going down on me,” Ronan prompts.

“Helpful,” Jonathan tells her. “I’m—maybe you’re worked up enough for me to go up to your clit now?”

Ronan makes an agreeable noise, and Jonathan keeps going. She sounds winded; it’s fucking hot. “Just gentle. Soft. It’s so good, it’ll be so good. Soft and wet and the gentlest rhythm. I’ll be so careful, I swear.”

"I know you will," Ronan manages. She closes her eyes, and really lets herself imagine it, properly. Jonathan maybe laid out between her legs, totally absorbed, treating her right, licking her slow and careful just the way she is with her fingers, the way she's learning Ronan's body. "I—I have to pull your hair again, have to—" _say thank you_, Ronan thinks "—be there with you."

“You’re with me,” Jonathan agrees. “You’re surrounding me, you’re all I can see and taste and feel, just you, Ronan. I’m, I’m so hot from listening to the noises you make when I get things right.”

The image in Ronan’s head switches: Ronan could be the one drowning in sensation, surrounded by Jonathan. Tasting her. That’s— “Oh, wow, yeah,” she murmurs, and slides her wet fingertips up to brush her clit. “I’ll—I’m gonna do you, after?” She can do that. It seems a lot easier than this seemed, than the real version of this still seems.

Jonathan grunts in surprise: she must still be touching herself, getting herself off again thinking about this. "If you—yeah, yes, any time you want, beautiful."

Ronan's hips jerk. She'd be between Jonathan's thighs, everything Jonathan, sight and sound and taste. "I want—I want to hear how you sound when, um, when I lick your clit."

Jonathan groans: maybe a little put on, maybe not. Ronan likes it either way. “I wouldn’t have to be very gentle with you,” Ronan says, feeling her way around the idea, finding the thread of the story she’s telling them both. “I could—really go for it.”

"You really could," Jonathan says, fervently. "As hard as you wanted. As much as—you could see how much I could take."

“Jesus, Jonathan,” Ronan gasps. “Yeah, I’ll—I’ll get you off like that a, a bunch of times in a row, do you think you could—?”

“I can, I could, yes,” Jonathan agreed.

“A bunch of times, just, um, god, just wear you out. Make you all—shaky, like that time in New York. So you can’t stand up.”

"Fucking—yes, fuck—" Jonathan audibly loses her breath. That time in New York, fuck. Theoretically Ronan knew people could come that many times in a row but it had been another thing to see it happen, Jonathan coming and shaking and coming again until she'd been almost squirming away from Ronan's gentle fingers at the same time as she'd begged Ronan not to stop, again, she could go again.

“I’d feel you like that. On my tongue, you’d—fuck, Jonathan. We—when I come to LA, I want to. Try.” She should have gotten a vibe out earlier; she’s too close now to dream of moving her fingertip off her clit, of even slowing down.

"Whatever you want," Jonathan pants. "Are you—are you close? You sound close. It's so hot, fuck, hearing you." Jonathan must be close too: she's unravelling over the phone line.

“Yeah, yes, I’m, you’ve got me so close, baby. So—fuck—tell me what you’re doing?”

“Right now?” Jonathan asks, and Ronan makes an agreeable noise. “God. I’m, I’m on my front, I’ve got my fist under me. If you were here I’d ride your fist instead, I’d—_oh_—“ 

And maybe it's stupidly cliché, but that's what finally does it for Ronan: the sound of Jonathan coming again, gasping helplessly. "I'm," Ronan gets out, and then she is, trying to keep touching herself through it, shivering in her bed.

It shakes through her; just when she thinks she’s done she gets another aftershock. She hopes Jonathan can hear her breathing and knows why she’s suddenly quiet, because—_Jesus_—this is quite a ride. She can’t handle the touch of her finger any more, pulls it back and rolls over to squeeze her thighs together instead. “Fuck,” she tells Jonathan. “That was, like—really really good.”

"You're telling me," Jonathan says, breathless and muffled. She sounds like she's dropped her face into the pillow. "That was—you were—holy shit."

Ronan finds the strength to grin, pleased with her accomplishments. "Yeah?"

"Fuck, yeah," Jonathan says. "Praise me now."

Not going to be difficult. "Oh my god, Jonathan," Ronan says, "I've never—thank you." It's more earnest than pornographic, but, fuck, it's heartfelt. Ronan feels safe, and listened to, and also really well fucked.

"Oh, well, I definitely accept thanks," Jonathan says, and then, gentler, "I won't hold you to anything you say while you're getting off, you know."

"You're good like that," Ronan agrees, just as soft. "But I do want to try it. I'm—very nervous, but you're very convincing."

"Flatterer," Jonathan says. Ronan hears her roll over in bed. "We can try anything you want. Except I'm not trying any of your cottage cheese meals again, I've learned."

“It’s a classic flavor combination,” Ronan argues, not pushing for a response. “I’m gonna be—really nervous,” she says again. It doesn’t feel as scary as it could, admitting that to Jonathan. Ronan’s preferred to be confident, and certainly to be perceived as confident, in bed for a long time, but Jonathan—this isn’t just sex by a long shot, and honesty seems more important than confidence now.

"That's okay," Jonathan says, and she sounds so _sure_. "I'll be right there—okay, well, obviously I'll be right there, that's sort of the point, but also, you know, emotionally. We can do whatever feels good for you, and if you need to stop, we stop." She clears her throat. "And, um, thank you, too. For—trusting me. I know it's a big deal."

“I don’t want it to be a big deal anymore,” Ronan says, a realization she’s reaching only as she says it. “So—thanks for being, um. Trustworthy and safe.”

Jonathan makes a soft sound, happy and maybe overwhelmed. It’s a lot; it’s filling up Ronan’s chest, making _I love you_ furl out towards the tip of her tongue. She says, instead, “So—what’s the writer’s room obsessed with this week?”

"Oh, it's _super_ niche," Jonathan says, immediately rolling with the change of mood, and she's off, holding court. If Ronan closes her eyes, it's almost like she's there, both of them post-coital and Jonathan riding a comedown wave of energy.

***

LAX is a hellscape, but Ronan’s ready to get used to it.

She hasn’t flown into LA regularly since she was a teenager, visiting Fletcher and her mom’s friends, but this is the second trip in as many months, and the terminals are starting to make sense again. It helped that Jonathan was with her on the last flight, leading her off the gate like an LA native instead of a recent transplant still moving belongings between coasts. 

She hasn't checked a bag because some things are just rubbing salt in a travelling wound, so once she's off the plane, she can get through to a cab without much fuss. It seems impossible, even after the last trip, that it’s so warm here in the middle of winter; she takes off her sweatshirt while she’s waiting her turn in the cab line, the breeze only a slight chill through her t-shirt. 

She slept on the plane, but in the cab she's wired, staring out the window and seeing absolutely nothing. It's always exciting to see Jonathan, but this is—there's maybe a lot riding on this trip. On trying new things that she can't stop thinking about, but also on the way her feelings about Jonathan have been building lately, like she's crested the top of a roller-coaster and has started to race towards something big and new.

LA traffic is always special but it feels extra inconvenient today, when she's crossed a whole country and now there's just a few roads and a lot of bad drivers between her and Jonathan. Between Ronan and the way Jonathan smiles when they first see each other, completely unguarded; the way Jonathan turns her face into Ronan's neck when they hug.

She thinks about texting, but—it’s fun to surprise Jonathan. It’s fun to ring the doorbell and wait, grin so wide it makes her cheeks sore, on the front stoop.

She isn’t disappointed. She can hear Jonathan actually running towards the door, then pausing like she’s going to pretend to be chill, maybe, when she opens it.

Instead, Jonathan flings the door open, beaming. "Hey," she says, which is a moderately chill greeting, and then Ronan gives and rushes for her, dropping her bags and wrapping her arms around her, holding her tight.

“Hey,” Jonathan says again, pressed into Ronan’s shoulder, the sound of it so pleased and excited that it conversely helps Ronan take a breath and chill a little herself.

“I brought you bagels,” Ronan tells her, not letting go just yet.

“Oh my god. Best girlfriend ever.”

Ronan feels herself blush, and can't bring herself to really mind. "I think I might have some competition," she says, and gives Jonathan a squeeze just to make sure her point gets across.

Jonathan snorts happily. "Gross," she says, and then, pulling back, "I have a new couch now! Come in and see."

Jonathan does have a new couch, and an Xbox 360, and best of all her same bed, made up nicely for Ronan's arrival, but somehow they manage not to fall into any of those traps just yet, not when there's all of early-afternoon LA to explore together.

Ronan wants to go to the science museum, even if it doesn't have a space shuttle just yet. "We can go back in October," she suggests. Eight months from now, but it feels easy to suggest. She's gonna be visiting Jonathan in October, for sure. 

Jonathan smiles at her, looking up through her eyelashes. "In October, huh?"

"Yes," Ronan says. Jonathan smiles wider. "I really like, um, the space shuttle."

Jonathan laughs, and then they’re pulling into the parking lot and she has to focus.

The science museum is much more fun with Jonathan. Ronan had known it would be, but she hasn’t realized just how—bright and electrified Jonathan would be. Jonathan with a subject to riff on is always fun; Jonathan on _this_ subject, science and space and math and technology, glows.

Ronan could listen to her for hours, following her around from exhibit to exhibit. Jonathan tugs her along by the hand when she gets excited, and she goes off on a length tangent about statistics somewhere around the hour mark, and Ronan can't remember being happier than this for—well. For a long time.

They spend a solid forty minutes in the gift shop, Jonathan picking out new science-themed t-shirts and Ronan buying a book of space postcards. Postcards seem like a good thing to have on hand when you’re in a long-distance relationship, she thinks.

She manages to get them without Jonathan seeing, which is even better, and then they emerge back in the warmth of late afternoon LA, Jonathan still weighing up the merits of a third t-shirt while Ronan carries her bag for her.

“Dinner,” Jonathan declares. “Patio dinner. Patio dinner on the beach? —no, that’s a terrible idea. Patio dinner in Los Feliz.”

“Sure,” Ronan agrees. It’s impossible to hide how charmed she is by tour-guide Jonathan, so she doesn’t try. 

They end up at a seafood place, where Jonathan wrinkles her nose at Ronan's order and then steals every other bite anyway. Sitting in the shade, watching Jonathan fight her constant war against chairs, Ronan feels a million miles away from New York, from DC, from office skirt suits and pantyhose.

“What’s the plan now?” Ronan asks, grabbing the bill over Jonathan’s half-hearted objections.

“We could go get drinks in my neighborhood,” Jonathan says. “Or—I have drinks in my house.”

Ronan hears _I have a bed in my house_, whatever Jonathan’s actually saying. “Yeah,” she agrees, and it comes out hoarse.

Jonathan's eyes flick down to her mouth. "Yeah," she repeats. It's possible Ronan has never paid a bill faster in her life.

Jonathan never drives exactly what Ronan would call cautiously, but her driving back from the restaurant strays into newly dangerous territory. “Jonathan,” Ronan tells her, “I’d like to live long enough to—try new things.”

Jonathan slows down. A little.

Ronan feels almost shy when they get back to Jonathan's, as Jonathan kicks off her trainers in the hall, drops her museum bags by them. Jonathan's house is familiarly cluttered, lived in and messy, and Ronan wants to back her against the wall and kiss her, but hesitates.

"We could—watch something," she offers, instead, and Jonathan looks up, already saying, "Sure, absolutely, whatever you want," already trying to make it easier on her. Already offering an out.

"No," Ronan says. "No, sorry, that's not what I want at all, I'm just—" Jonathan's coming in close, and Ronan pulls her closer and puts her face in Jonathan's shoulder. "Nervous," she finishes, muffled.

Jonathan doesn't say, _don't be_, or _you don't need to be_: instead, she says, "I know," and lets Ronan hide her face a bit longer. She smells like sunshine from their lunch outside. Ronan wants to kiss her, and can, suddenly, buoyed by Jonathan's steadiness: she tilts her head up and fits their mouths together, kissing until they both lose themselves in it.

It's easy to push Jonathan into the wall now, at least, if nothing else just yet. It's easy to murmur, "Missed this so much," against her lips. Ronan tries not to miss it too much, because she doesn't know where she's headed next but she doesn't think it's LA. If she misses it too much, they won't be able to make this work, and she wants it to work so goddamn much.

But right here, right now, with Jonathan's body against hers and the promise of three and a half long days still to come, she can acknowledge it. "Missed kissing you. Missed your skin."

Jonathan huffs a laugh, still clutching at her, getting her hand in Ronan's hair as Ronan dips to nuzzle against her neck. "Creeper," she says.

Ronan laughs. “Tell me what you creepily miss about me, then.” Jonathan’s tugging at her hair just enough to make Ronan want more, just like she’s mouthing at Ronan’s neck just enough to make Ronan crave a good bite.

"So fucking much," Jonathan says, voice dipping low; she sounds just like Ronan feels, like everything inside her is too big, too expansive for her to feel and keep going, so Ronan has to kiss her again, press her against the wall like she wanted and kiss her, Jonathan's hips already hitching for friction.

They could move off the wall into the bedroom. Ronan wants that, just—today’s the day. Today’s the day, and Ronan wants to try, but she’s really fucking antsy about it.

Antsy in a way that, perversely, once she starts thinking about it, makes her want to conquer her fear. People like oral sex. People _love_ it. _Jonathan_ loves it, and Ronan might, too, with Jonathan.

She at least wants to _try_ with Jonathan, so she pulls away just long enough to say, "So, uh, want to show me how you've still got the same bed?"

"Really do," Jonathan tells her. No one has ever sounded quite that sincere before. Meryl Streep couldn't do sincere that well. It makes Ronan smile, and it makes it easy to follow Jonathan back towards her bedroom.

Ronan has Jonathan's shirt off pretty much as soon as they're through the door. "You have a one-track mind," Jonathan says, but it's pretty clear she doesn't actually mind from the way she immediately unhooks her own bra, sighing with relief as she peels out of it. "Okay, they're all yours."

"Missed _these_," Ronan says, and, god, it's not like she forgets how fantastic Jonathan's boobs are, but _really_, they're incredible. She ducks her head, kisses down Jonathan's chest, takes a nipple into her mouth just like that because, fuck, she has to, because Jonathan is right there, urging her to do it.

"Missed your _mouth_," Jonathan groans, above her, and—

"I could, um," Ronan says, pulling back. "I could—do something else with my mouth?"

Jonathan’s breath catches. “Would that be easier? If you go first?”

“Yeah,” Ronan agrees, straightening up just long enough to get her own shirt off and start working on the fastening of Jonathan’s date jeans. “But also I just—want to.” Wants to make Jonathan feel good; wants to see for herself that it could be something Jonathan likes, _before_ Jonathan ... tries.

Jonathan pulls back enough that she can get herself out of her jeans, hopping on one leg to tug at the hem of the other. "You—if you don't like it, we'll stop, it's okay," she says. She almost over-balances, but Ronan steadies her before she can, stays there as she kicks free of the jeans. She's just in her underwear now, simple and black, soft girl boxer briefs. Ronan's going to put her mouth on them, Ronan thinks, and—okay, okay, yeah, that's—she's into that. That feels exciting, and good.

She urges Jonathan back toward the bed. It doesn't take much; Jonathan's pretty much climbing right back into the center of it, inviting, as soon as Ronan tips her chin in that direction. So—so Jonathan likes this, and Jonathan's kind of easy to please. The bar for performance here is low. Ronan can definitely do this.

Jonathan hums when Ronan climbs up and kisses her stomach. Ronan's been here before, and even as low as the tops of Jonathan's hips; she's just always stopped, before. Not today.

Jonathan's holding so still for her, which is—honestly kind of odd. She's usually so responsive in bed, wriggling and gasping at the slightest touch, and while Ronan appreciates what she's trying to do, loves that Jonathan's thinking about it for her, she needs—

She kisses the point of Jonathan's hip, kisses underneath it. "You can move," she says, and presses her mouth to the top of Jonathan's thigh, just below the line of her underwear. "Thank you, though." Jonathan twitches immediately, and Ronan smiles. "Just like that."

Maybe that's a goal: make Jonathan forget herself altogether. Make Jonathan writhe and not care at all about making this a "good experience for Ronan" or whatever idea she has about it.

Ronan can still use her fingers, surely. That's not cheating. And it's so familiar and easy to run one of them up Jonathan's pussy through her underwear while she keeps nuzzling the softly furred inside of Jonathan's thigh. 

"Missed your fingers too," Jonathan tells her, breathily, as Ronan does it again, feeling out how wet Jonathan already is, her underwear dampening as Ronan touches her.

Ronan could get her off like this, just—staying close. Training wheels. She could, but she's not going to. "Lift your hips," she tells Jonathan, hooking her fingers in the hem to pull them down.

"Admire the date undies before they leave, please." Jonathan's grinning when Ronan looks up.

"Trust me," Ronan tells her. "I'm _very_ into them. I look forward to admiring them at greater length later. But for right now—"

"For right now, absolutely, good plan," Jonathan agrees, and lifts her ass enough that Ronan can strip her.

Jonathan naked remains a glorious sight. Her hand twitches like she wants to grab for the sheets—even after they’d started regularly having sex in DC, Jonathan was quick to cover up after, and Ronan wasn't going to push—but she doesn't, just lets Ronan look her fill. Ronan's never had such a close up look at—here.

"You're gorgeous," she says, and it comes out breathy and overawed. That's sort of how she feels, really. Jonathan's letting her be right here, close enough to see everything. Close enough to _hear_, when she runs her finger up again, not just Jonathan's breathing changing but the wet sound of the touch itself.

"Not to rush you or anything," Jonathan says, soft. "Just that the staring is a little, uh."

Ronan can understand that, as much as she could just keep staring. She kisses Jonathan's inner thigh again, lingering, kisses higher, and then—softly, exploratory—her flushed pussy, where Jonathan's labia part, where Ronan has been trailing her fingers.

She hadn't expected the way the softness of Jonathan's skin here would make her lips tingle. Jonathan's fuzzier than Ronan is—Ronan's older sisters introduced her to a waxer before law school, and she's gone pretty regularly for years—and Ronan likes it, likes running her fingers through the triangle of curls Jonathan leaves alone.But where Jonathan's naturally hairless, further in, she's soft and slick and inviting. Ronan's putting out her tongue to taste before she fully realizes she wants to, just from that.

She's tasted this before, licked her fingers without thinking after she's made Jonathan come, but never like this, never so intimately. Never just her tongue and the slickness on Jonathan's skin; her lips and Jonathan's body under them.

Jonathan's squirming, just a little, like a nonverbal request for more. Ronan's gonna give her more, but she's also going to hook a shoulder under one thigh and keep her more firmly in place. This is Ronan's show to run, she's pretty sure. Jonathan can wait for Ronan to decide how fast she wants to go.

She can still use her fingers, she reminds herself, and shifts so she can get her arm up under herself, so she can rub a fingertip where Jonathan is wettest, opening for her. Jonathan gasps this time, and Ronan thinks, _what if_, and licks slowly around her own finger.

"I don't know what's happening but it's good," Jonathan says, trying to shift her hips against Ronan's grip. "You can keep doing that."

"I think," Ronan tells her, and pauses to lick her again, "I'm going to do what I want."

Jonathan groans. "Good—good option, yeah."

It really feels like a good option, as Ronan keeps going, trying out things with her tongue. She's deliberately avoiding Jonathan's clit for now, because Jonathan squirming in need is something that transcends any specific sexual act to just be unbearably hot one hundred percent of the time. She tries small, shallow licks, the way Jonathan likes when she's being fingered, and Jonathan's thighs twitch up around Ronan's face.

"Sorry, sorry," Jonathan gasps. "That's—fuck."

Getting Jonathan riled up with little touches has been good since the start, so it makes no sense that it should be overwhelmingly exciting to be able to make her this needy just from little licks.

She tries a little more, freeing up both hands just to keep Jonathan open in front of her, easy-access. This is—this is _fun_, is what it is. Ronan almost giggles, but catches herself in time. Jonathan probably wouldn’t interpret that in the spirit Ronan feels it.

Jonathan is soft and slick under Ronan's tongue, and when Ronan focuses in and doesn't let up, she squirms again, gasping. "Ronan—please—I'm not, not rushing you, just—I—"

Ronan could tease her more. But maybe she’d like to hear what Jonathan sounds like with Ronan’s tongue on her clit, too.

The feel of licking up towards it is distinct and unexpected, even though Ronan knows plenty about Jonathan’s pussy by now. It’s different like this, not just the addition of taste but the way the tip of Ronan’s tongue seems to find all new little divots and sensitive spots on the short journey upward.

When she reaches it, Jonathan's clit is hard under her tongue, and Jonathan cries out at the first touch, shivering. "Sorry," she says again, and Ronan glances up, watching Jonathan fling an arm over her face. "I'm trying—"

"You don't need to apologise," Ronan tells her. "I—let me make you feel good."

“You’re doing it,” Jonathan groans. “Trust me, you’re doing it.”

Ronan grins, and settles back in. Jonathan’s clit feels huge under her tongue, somehow, like she can choose hugely more fine-grained touches this way. It’s tempting to try out every possible way she could lick Jonathan, but they have time for that. This trip and the next and the next. Jonathan’s right; Ronan loves this. There’s no pressure at all to try every move all at once.

Jonathan feels pretty worked up, and Ronan wants to keep going, fuck, so—she's going to make Jonathan come. She's really going to—with her _mouth_, like this, with her _tongue_, trying these harder licks, pushing down with the tip of her tongue.

It's clear both that she's not as good with her tongue as with her fingers, and that it isn't going to matter at all. She can't keep her place on Jonathan's clit, but Jonathan responds to almost everything with whining and gasping, like Ronan's driving her completely wild. Ronan guesses she is, actually, and it feels really fucking good.

She presses in, so her tongue's not as far out, not as tired by licking up and down and around. She can't breathe as easily now, but god, who needs air when she's got Jonathan writhing under her, so close Ronan swears she can actually, literally taste it.

Her face is a mess, wet on her chin, and, god, she really does love this. She loves what it's doing to Jonathan, loves—

"_I'm,_" Jonathan suddenly gasps, sharply, and without a second's more notice she's coming, thighs tightening up around Ronan's head. It's—Ronan can feel it happening under her tongue, like she can feel Jonathan's clit almost straining through it.

Jonathan _does_ taste different, she's sure of it. Ronan wants to taste every fucking variation, wants to make her come again right now just because she can. She wants to stay right here until tomorrow, maybe, licking Jonathan until there's a wet spot the size of fucking Texas. She’s at least halfway there; Jonathan’s soaking Ronan’s whole hand, and the sheets.

Jonathan maybe has other plans, though. "Oh my god. Oh my _god_. You have to come up here and let me eat you out, please. You don't have to, just—please want me to, god."

"Up—" and then Ronan gets it, watching Jonathan lie flopped out on her back, chest heaving.

“God. Okay,” Ronan says. Jesus. She’s certainly never done that, but it’s not like she isn’t familiar with the concept. She can figure it out. Knees to the headboard, and just—lower herself. Carefully.

She climbs up, kissing one nipple hello as she passes, and then gets a little more nervous once she’s straddling Jonathan’s chest. “Um, where do your arms go?”

"Where do my—" Jonathan's staring up at her, looking vaguely like she's been concussed, which is _extremely_ flattering for a first time sex act. Or an any time sex act, frankly. "Wow, okay, you—here, like this," and she urges Ronan up further, so she can slip her arms under Ronan's legs, so Ronan's thighs are around her face.

“Jumping right to the three-hundred level classes here,” Jonathan says, and then pulls Ronan in closer by the ass, licking her lips. “Just—“ Whatever Jonathan was about to say is lost as Ronan wriggles her knees forward and manages to get where Jonathan’s pulling her. It happens too fast to be nervous; one minute, she was down between Jonathan’s thighs, and now, Jonathan’s— 

“Oh, fuck,” Ronan gasps, because _oh fuck_, that’s Jonathan’s tongue, hot and soft and unmistakable.

She grabs for the headboard, one palm ending up flat on the wall. "Jon-Jonathan," she manages, and even with her head buried between Ronan's legs Jonathan correctly interprets that as a good noise.

Jonathan's not stopping, not even trying for slow and easy. Ronan can't tell what she's doing, really, the touches somehow more diffuse—god, except that, which must be the point of Jonathan's tongue—but she knows it feels fucking fantastic. "Jesus fuck, that's—that's so good."

Jonathan clearly knows what she's doing, and just as clearly fucking loves it: her hands are tight on Ronan's thighs, her ass, and she's making these _noises_—Ronan is going to go out of her mind.

Ronan's been going without this? On purpose? God, she's never been so wrong about anything in her goddamned life. "Fuck, I'm, that's so," Ronan manages, because whatever skills she's been acquiring to help her talk through sex are absolutely abandoning her now. "Fuck, baby," is about as much as she can manage.

Jonathan still likes being called that, at least; she groans, the bed moving as Jonathan moves under her. Ronan doesn't know what, exactly, until she twists around enough to see that Jonathan's, Jesus, squeezing her thighs together, hips rolling, thigh muscles straining and releasing.

"Are you," Ronan pants, "are you getting—is this—" putting a coherent thought together is becoming impossible "—you really like this, fuck."

Jonathan just moans and does something new that makes it impossible for Ronan to follow that train of thought. She’s too busy keeping herself upright.

She can’t be this close already, it’s fucking impossible, but if Jonathan keeps doing whatever that is—

Jonathan stops, head turning into Ronan’s thigh, gasping. Ronan might not have understood, except for the way Jonathan’s hands are squeezing down on her ass, muscles shaking.

"Baby, did you just—" and Jonathan gasps again, hands clenching, and oh holy fuck, this is—Jonathan just—

"Please," Ronan blurts, and she doesn't usually beg in bed but she feels pretty damn close now, like if Jonathan doesn't do _something_, whatever something she needs, she's going to explode right here on the bed.

Jonathan nods, body shivering, and then she’s, _sweet-Mary-mother-of-God_, getting her tongue back on Ronan’s clit and just not fucking letting up. Had Ronan thought this was diffuse? It’s sharp and specific and fast and everything, everything Ronan needs. Jonathan came from this, from eating Ronan out. Jonathan loves it, and Ronan loves it, and Ronan never wants this to fucking stop, not ever, holy fuck.

She can feel her whole body tightening up, her thighs trembling where she's working to stay up. She can't spare a thought to worry whether she's pressing down too hard, whether she tastes weird or smells weird, and there's no question whether Jonathan wants to be doing it or not—everything is just Jonathan's tongue, and the desperate need to come, the unbearable building—

"Oh fuck," she manages, voice tight, and shatters.

She swears Jonathan must have been holding her up; there’s no way she just stayed upright during what’s maybe, almost definitely, the best orgasm of her fucking life.

She manages, on shaky legs, to back up enough to drop on her ass next to Jonathan, and then flop the rest of the way down. She’d like to have her head up by Jonathan’s, but she can’t move, so there’s no point wanting.

Jonathan either understands or feels the same, because she wriggles around until she's down by Ronan, both of their feet up on the pillows. "So, uh," she says, "what's the verdict?"

Ronan just turns to look at her, incredulous, still panting like she’s run a marathon.

Jonathan’s smile is so sweet, pleased and somehow shy, that Ronan’s heart takes some kind of actual leap in her chest. “Good,” Jonathan says. “I really—I shut up about it because I didn’t want to steal your nervousness thunder, but I was pretty nervous that you wouldn’t. So. Good.”

Ronan finds a reserve of energy to flop sideways and kiss her before she can think about it. Jonathan makes a surprised noise into the kiss, and Ronan pulls back long enough to say, “You can tell me what you’re feeling. No thunder-stealing issues. But, um. Good verdict, yeah. And next time I’ll remember to pull your hair,” because it’s just occurring to her that they’ve talked about that in very specific detail and she completely forgot in the heat of the moment. 

Jonathan laughs and Ronan kisses her again, because the time for speeches is clearly done, and it's only then that Ronan realises she can taste herself on Jonathan's mouth.

It’s—definitely not bad. More like weirdly hot, certainly the kind of experience that she’s sure is going to be just plain hot with some repetition. Like: that’s the taste of Jonathan’s mouth after Jonathan made her come like a freight train.

Ronan gets to stay here with Jonathan for three more days. It’s not enough, but it’s something, and it lets her sigh out of the kiss and suggest, “Quick shower and then video games?”

Jonathan beams at her. "Best girlfriend in the world," she says.

***

The sun wakes Ronan up, just a sliver of it peeking through the blackout curtains. She blinks at the ceiling for a moment, trying to decide if she can fall back asleep and then concluding she can't. As she's deciding, though, she remembers that she's in LA, with Jonathan, and that the warmth on her right side is Jonathan's warmth, and that everything in the fucking world is good right now.

She blinks a little more and then turns to look. It's a little fuzzy with her contacts out, but she's close enough to get most of Jonathan's sleeping details: her curls, gone frizzy in the night; her lax face; the little wet patch on her pillow under her mouth. It shouldn't be cute, probably, that Jonathan's drooling. Ronan shouldn't be so charmed.

Like she knows Ronan is looking at her, Jonathan stirs, crinkling up her face. Her pajama top has slipped off one shoulder, and she's squinting against the light. "What," Jonathan mumbles, mostly into the pillow. "You okay?"

Ronan is so much more than okay. She's really— "I love you," she says, softly.

Jonathan squeezes her eyes shut and then opens them wide, turning toward Ronan. "I'm definitely awake, right?"

Ronan laughs and leans in closer, pressing her forehead into Jonathan's. "I love you," she says again, because, god, she's never been so sure of anything in her whole life.

"I—too," Jonathan says, and then, "Hang on, I need a replay, this is a lot for before coffee. Me too, with the—yes."

Forget the morning sunlight: Ronan feels like she could light up the room on her own. Hell, the whole damn state. "I can get you coffee," she says. "Does that have any bearing on anything?"

"Just how much I can speak good," Jonathan says. She's flushed adorably pink, smiling up at Ronan from the pillow. "Not the—nothing else."

"Good," Ronan says, and then has to kiss her, no matter what the morning breath situation might be for either of them. "What do you want to do today? After I get you coffee."

"I have a whole itinerary," Jonathan tells her. "Including the beach. But the first and last stops are both right here, so—"

"So I'm gonna go brush my teeth, and get you coffee, and climb back in and get us started on the day's adventures," Ronan interprets, licking her lips. "I have some particular sites I want to explore."

"Oh really?" Jonathan flops over, turning onto her back, face still turned to Ronan. "Oh my, I've created a monster." She's beaming. "For that, I could, uh, be persuaded to wait a bit longer for coffee."

Jesus. "I think you _have_ created a monster," Ronan says, but she's already peeling the covers back, kissing downward. "Be warned."

"Mm-hm, just terrible," Jonathan agrees, sighing and shifting on the bed, arching towards Ronan's mouth. "Gonna have to live with my choices." Just as Ronan's getting to the soft curve of her belly, Jonathan adds, "Love you, too. By the way."

Ronan smiles, and keeps going down.


End file.
